Sweat Shop of Infinite Jest

The lions have laid their sights upon me
And I concede I am no island
I am the cockroach: intact, I am death without praise
Subcutaneously borrowing courage to crack facade
and figment
Both ancient and arcane
whilst sleeping I poked and prodded
a pride exhaling progeny
Smoke swallowing the horizon
We are men, we are war
And I was a fool to think I had shifted from
Skin to silk
Unmade in the factories my father told me didn't exist
The lips of a child quivering in the shadow
of a heavy hand
Watch the skyline
It speaks beneath the cacophony of stratum
Cradled endlessly in the falling teeth
of old men
and the fruitless trees of prophesy
Be the worm in the apple
And sleep
Without periphery